Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Set Point by Meg Jones, which releases on April 7th 2026.

Nothing fades faster than a former prodigy—and Inés Costa is dangerously close to disappearing.

Once queen of the court, Inés is limping through qualifiers. And after losing her biggest sponsor to Chloe Murphy, the sport’s fiery new favorite, she and her bank account are running on fumes.

Chloe, known as much for her talent as her temper, is a top seed for the upcoming US Open. But thanks to broken rackets, code violations, and the inability to play well with others, her “favorite” status is slipping away.

However, when they are forced to share the same side of the court, and the world surprisingly doesn’t implode, Chloe makes an offer: she’ll fund Inés’s journey to the US Open, but only if Inés agrees to be her hitting partner and teach her to keep a level head.

It’s strictly business, but somewhere between practice drills and tour stops, the line between rival and something more begins to blur.

As the summer burns toward Flushing Meadows, their sizzling tension catches fire. With a trophy in sight and emotions running high, will their romance double fault at set point?

Chapter 1/Inés
PLAYLIST: My Kink Is Karma—Chappell Roan

Sinclair vs Murphy
Final—Centre Court, Wimbledon

A lifetime of running myself into the ground for this sport had led me here. Centre Court. Seated in the hushed crowd, watching two other players battle for the trophy I should have had a shot at.

My place was down there, racket in hand. I’d worked the majority of my twenty-five years towards this goal. Instead, every sharp pop of the ball dragged up another memory of how it all went wrong.

Henrik’s low voice broke through the silence. “Watch.” He leaned in towards me, his eyes glued to the action. “You’re missing the match.”

“Anda ya,” I huffed in Spanish, my eyes still lowered to my wrapped wrist. It wasn’t an injury, only some tenderness, so the wrap was precautionary. Still, the rough fabric made my stomach turn, a reminder of the problems that had plagued my career. “You forced me to come.”

“It’s the Wimbledon final, you couldn’t miss this,” he added as we sat burning under the English afternoon sun. “Besides, it’s not like you were busy.”

His words stung with truth. But it was all a reminder of how I should be the one down on court.

I’d practically grown up on the tennis court in Spain and finally, two years ago, I’d claimed my first and only Grand Slam trophy on the French clay court of Roland Garros. It had been a tough match. The iconic red surface lowered the game pace, forcing patience, endurance and precision. I’d gone the distance with a baseline rally, keeping players on their toes with chess-like tactics.

I’d been the champion. But my victory was short lived, and only a few weeks after, I’d started getting a sharp pain in my wrists, making even swinging a racket painful. I’d barely survived the opening rounds of tournaments, giving away precious points as I fell down in the rankings.

Eventually, I had no other choice but to take time away from the court and get surgery. In the end, I spent almost a year watching the women’s singles competition from the sidelines.

Even eighteen months after the surgery, I was still struggling to bounce back. And now, the woman the press had pitted against me, the strawberry blonde down on the court, bouncing a tennis ball against the grass, was playing in a final I could only dream of reaching.

Long legs, slim body, Chloe Murphy was only twenty-two and in her third Grand Slam final in less than a year. She’d stormed into my life, winning our matches in brutal fashion.

Two weeks ago, I’d been standing opposite her on the court. A decidedly horrible match-up in the first round of Wimbledon that had seen me crash out.

Throughout my comeback, Chloe Murphy had haunted me, becoming my major competitor since rejoining the tour. Back in January, she had done the same, beating me in the first round of the Australian Open. Chloe played like she had nothing to lose and no one to answer to. Delaying tactics. Intimidating net rushes. A smile after every shanked shot, like she’d planned it.

Finally, in May, she turned my favorite court in Paris against me in the second round. And she’d used every trick in the book, like pacing just long enough between serves to fray nerves.

She didn’t play with people. She played through them.

The press had wasted no time pitting us against each other. A rivalry between the former star, now fallen, and the next big thing.

Every time I thought I had bounced back, that my body was ready for the brutal two weeks a Slam brought, she had been there, a cruel reminder of my limits.

Chloe’s serve cut through the air like a blade, sharp, effortless, dangerous. Her opponent and my friend, Scottie Sinclair, lunged, her footwork quick and deliberate, no flicker of hesitation in the hometown favorite. But Chloe hit the ball with such power, it made it near impossible for Scottie to return.

The crowd erupted. Point Murphy.

Chloe lifted her chin, a faint, familiar smirk pulling at her lips that I had seen too many times, but the first was still seared into my memory. New York. An after party. I’d spotted her across the room.

I hadn’t taken Chloe seriously at first. She’d entered Wimbledon last year on a wild card. She’d done better in a couple of the smaller competitions in the run-up to the US Open, making it as far as the semis. Apparently, all it took to become a tennis star was a wild card and a miracle. Then, she started making finals. First in China, then Melbourne, then again in Paris in May, where she’d finally won.

Watching her raise that trophy, the one that had been mine, hurt more than all the physio it had taken to return to the court. And now all the history between us felt mocking.

A grunt from the court snapped me back, signaling the start of another point.

Scottie Sinclair stormed forward, every muscle sharp with intent, lobbing the ball over the net, and over her opponent. Chloe Murphy stood too close to the net as the ball flew over, giving her no chance to claim the point.

The score was announced, with Scottie in the lead. 40–30.

They were down to the third set; each player having claimed their win. Chloe first, unsurprising given the year she’d been having.

“She’s got to keep up that speed,” Henrik said amongst the soft noise of the crowd. “If she loses that, Scottie will have her on the ropes.”

I turned, my jaw slackened. “Since when do you root against Scottie?”

Henrik had been a lifeline after my surgery, even pairing up with me in the mixed doubles to help me get back on my feet. He’d grown closer to my friends, like Scottie, as well.

His head tilted towards me, brows raised. “I’m not rooting against her,” he said, softer now. “But I’m supporting Chloe.”

“Traitor.” I guess I shouldn’t blame him. They’d been seeing each other since autumn last year. Our once-close friendship had frayed since, and I couldn’t deny, I’d been the one pulling back. Seeing them together was harder than I’d expected.

I couldn’t decide what was worse, looking at him or Chloe, down on the court. His relationship with Chloe left me unsure of where I stood with him. As they played on, I stared down at the floor, aware of the swaying of the silent crowd, sitting in that tight anticipation a good final brought.

I should be down there. I should be playing.

“You know,” he said cautiously, “She isn’t so bad once you get to know her. I think you could be friends.”

I looked him dead on. “You’re joking, right?”

In the short time that her progress had held my attention, I’d watched her ruin careers like it was nothing. Girls with potential, rattled and ruined after a match with her.

He raised his shoulders in a shrug when Chloe’s American accent cut through the silence.

“This is a disgrace.” I looked up, playing catch-up to the unfolding drama. “It’s like you aren’t even watching her. If she was anyone else, you’d be making these calls.”

The umpire placed her hand over her microphone, her response cut off by the murmur of the audience. Scottie waited on the baseline, inspecting her manicure as she waited for the Hawk-Eye replay on the screen to settle the point.

A slow, building clap began to echo around the stadium as the footage played, revealing the point in Scottie’s favor.

“Are you done yet?” Scottie shouted. “Or are you ready to play?” And that really set Chloe off, shouting back at her opposition, anger flaring as the crowd grew restless, a chorus of boos rising in the air.

“This isn’t good,” Henrik said, his hands pressing into his thighs as he watched his girlfriend lose it on court.

“No,” I said, my tone just as serious. “It’s not.”

I’d heard stories of players unraveling on court, we’d all seen the videos. But watching it in real time was something different. The energy around the court turned tense, the argument continuing, the crowd booing.

“Code violation, verbal abuse, warning Chloe Murphy.” A loud cheer from the crowd broke out at the umpire’s announcement, the young American shaking her head as she walked back to the returning position.

“What is she doing?” Henrik muttered as the match progressed, Scottie taking the last point in the game, and the serve changing to Chloe. She took her time, bouncing the ball, tossing it to the side, waiting out the clock.

I struggled to suffocate a laugh. “She’s doing what she does best.” His gaze tore away from the match, his eyebrows furrowed. “She’s being a drama queen,” I said. “Chloe does this every time.”

Henrik looked back at the match as she finally served. Scottie started to move, but hesitated, reading the direction of the ball to perfection.

“Out.” The linesman thrust their hand in the air. The crowd released a breath, watching Chloe as she took her second serve, Scottie getting back into position.

Again, she took her time, running down the clock.

“She always does this when it isn’t going her way,” I said, watching as she threw the ball up in the air, and the point continued.

It had happened during the final at Melbourne, when she’d harassed the umpire, telling everyone that her opponent was milking an injury for more rest time. And again, in the quarter finals at Paris. And now. I wasn’t sure if she was just a hothead, or if this was the pressure getting to her, but as her competitor it was thrilling to watch. To know she had a weakness.

If I could get into shape, get off the bench and make it past the opening rounds, maybe I could use that short fuse against her.

The match continued, the pressure in the air crushing. This was Scottie Sinclair, a Brit at a home match, so the crowd were supportive of her from the start. But after Chloe’s outburst, they grew louder, more energized. It got worse, especially when Scottie took control of the third set, leading 5–2.

Chloe hurled her racket towards the sideline, earning another warning for unsportsmanlike conduct and racket abuse. All the drama added up to a completely avoidable point penalty.

She was vulnerable. A crack in the polished veneer. For months, she had seemed untouchable, but now, as her composure splintered under the weight of the match, I could see that Chloe Murphy wasn’t invincible. If this was what it took to beat her, I wasn’t above stepping into the shadows.

If she was allowed to play mind games, then so could I.

We were only a couple of months out from the US Open. Chloe’s home turf. And if she could beat me on what I considered mine, then I could do the same on hers. She might have youth and speed, but I had experience and spite.

If my body didn’t fail me, if I stayed in control of my injury, then I could do this. I refused to back down, to be at the mercy of Chloe Murphy’s backhand.

As I watched Scottie Sinclair take the final set, I jumped to my feet, cheering as loudly as I could for one of my closest friends. But my eyes were on Chloe the entire time, as she met Scottie at the net for the handshake, as she was presented with her runner-up award, as she clapped as Scottie received her winner’s trophy, a scowl pressed to her lips the entire time.

If the press had thought we had the most exciting rivalry in tennis, then they’d better not count me out.

Inés Costa was coming back for another round.

Excerpted from SET POINT by Meg Jones, published by Avon Books, April 7, 2026. © 2026 by Meg Jones. Reprinted courtesy of HarperCollinsPublishers.

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Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Game Point by Meg Jones, which releases on September 9th 2025.

In the aftermath of Dylan Bailey’s tenth Grand Slam loss, she decides to put her racket away for good. Until a tempting bet from fellow pro Oliver Anderson convinces her to give it one last shot.

If she sticks it out, and still loses the next tournament, she takes home his US Open Trophy, and is free to walk away from the sport forever. To sweeten the deal, Oliver proposes a twist—he’ll swap his racket for a whistle and coach Dylan in the months leading up to the Australian Open.

After all, with the solid friendship they’ve built, surely working together could score a game point.

They just need to keep their eyes on the ball and ignore their sizzling tension.

As Oliver and Dylan navigate the unpredictable court, they rediscover their love for the sport, but the feelings they share could complicate things. With the world watching their every move, they must ensure their partnership stays on-court.

But as the lines between coach and player blur, especially in a sport where every detail is scrutinized, keeping their feelings in check may be their toughest match yet.

Chapter 1 – Dylan

A lifetime of giving up everything for this sport had led to this. Arthur Ashe Stadium, US Open final. One set already hers, a single game point separating me from another failure. I was a nervous wreck on the baseline, one hand gripping the handle of my racket, the fingertips of the other pressing into the green material of the ball, gripping so hard I felt like I might never let go.

Across the net, my eyes caught on the serve clock rapidly ticking closer to zero. I was running out of time. The options were: win this point and claw this set back, or miss and the past few months will have been for nothing.

I bounced the ball against the ground, repeating the simple words over and over again.

I can do this. I can do this. I can fucking do this.

Catching the ball, I felt prickling against the soft palm of my hand as I tried desperately to hold down the vomit churning in my stomach, the mantra only serving to increase my anxiety and exhaustion. I’d barely slept the night before, tossing and turning and dreading this exact moment.

The moment I lost. Again.

I should be familiar with it by now, but every time is just as  devastating as the last. I was staring defeat head-on, and she looked like a 5’7″ American who had already smelt blood in the water.

Just before the clock reached zero, my arm stretched back, instinct and practice throwing my body into the trophy position. I tossed the ball upwards, swinging my racket forward to meet it, and the final game began.

It landed inside the box and Jasmine Carter lunged forward, returning the shot. She aimed for the open court to my right, but I still carried enough strength in my legs to meet it. The incredible speed of her returns was still hard to adapt to, even after almost two sets.

Jasmine played long and hard from the baseline, glory within her sight while failure was in mine, and I was doing everything I could. She aimed again, making me run to the left as if I was her dog playing fetch, a plaything. She was making it easy to give in, but I couldn’t help but try and use the last bit of fight my body had left. But I was bone tired and weary, my initial surge of last-stand adrenaline burning away under the hot September sun.

I got to the shot, managing to hit it back. I was almost caught off my feet by the speed when she fired it right back at me.

Swing and return. Swing and return. She trapped me in a rally, the ball flying back and forth between us, screaming across the net. My arms ached with the intensity, Jasmine’s own grunts filling the air along with mine.

I felt the pressure of the moment, the tension of this last battle rising.

Jasmine broke the rhythm of the blistering baseline rally, slicing low over the net. I adjusted, pushing forward on my feet, stretching out to meet the shot. My backhand took everything I had left in me, praying over and over it was enough to end this. To give me one last shot at pulling this set back from the brink.

The ball connected with my strings, refracting back over the net.  And then my racket shattered, the head breaking off, leaving only the handle in my hand. Horror filled me as it disintegrated, Carter easily meeting the ball, hitting it softly over the net and winning the point. Closing out the set and taking the match.

“Game, set, match—Carter. 2 sets to love. 6–1, 6–2.” The voice of the chair umpire was cut off by the roar of the congratulating crowd, embarrassment sinking into my soul and yet again, the roar of the New York crowd was for somebody else.

In a mortifying two sets, Jasmine Carter had claimed the trophy as her own and finally put me out of my fucking misery.

My legs wobbled under my body, but somehow I remained standing up, my attention focused on only the pieces of the handle I still held in my grip.

How the fuck had this happened?

I let out a single laugh, unable to contain my shock any longer. Even my equipment was giving up on me. I looked up, noticing Jasmine standing beside the net.

“Are you okay?” she asked, worry creasing her brow. I took a moment and swallowed down my own feelings, remembering how I’d screwed this up two years ago against Scottie Sinclair. I’d been mean and vindictive in a moment when it was uncalled for. I uncurled my hand, wiping my sweaty palm on my skirt as I closed the gap between us.

“Congratulations,” I said, pushing down my jealousy that another win had escaped me. Losing was becoming too much of a bad habit. “You played a good match.”

“So did you.” She smiled brightly as we shook across the net, braids framing her beautiful face. Victory looked good on her. She winked, adding, “It’s true what they say about playing against Dylan Bailey.”

I wanted to ask exactly what they said about me, a million versions of Dylan the “cunt” running through my head, but I didn’t dare ask. Forcing a painful smile to my lips, I released her hand, allowing her to turn and face her celebrating audience.

All throughout the ceremony, I wanted to scream. I stood there; my condolence prize held tightly in my hands as Jasmine rightfully took the trophy. She held it above her head, a huge smile spread across her face, the one thing I wanted more than anything in the world held triumphantly in her arms. I smiled so hard my cheeks started to hurt, my jaw clenching through the force of emotion. I bottled it down, held it all in, and tried, really fucking tried, to be happy for her because she deserved it. She won. She won, and I lost. Again.

She walked around the court, claiming it as her own, basking in the cheers from the crowd, and finally I got to go inside.

There was nobody waiting for me. No coaches or support staff, my friends all off at other matches supporting friends or preparing for their own. My family were on the other side of the world, my sisters running after my nieces, my parents working. They were where they should be, safe in Melbourne.

At least it meant there was nobody to hear me cry and sob so hard it rattled my already pained and aching body.

Disappointment as Dylan Bailey Crashes Out of US Open Final

In a riveting showdown at Arthur Ashe Stadium, American ace Jasmine Carter sent Australian sensation Dylan Bailey packing in only two sets.

Bailey, who’s recently found herself entangled in some juicy off-court drama involving tennis icon Matteo Rossi and his daughter Scottie Sinclair, seemed sluggish and out of sync throughout the match, failing to mount any significant challenge against Carter’s overall style of play.

The disappointing defeat has ignited speculation about Bailey’s performance trajectory in recent times. While she’s been a force to be reckoned with in competitions, her inability to clinch victory in the final stages raises eyebrows and leaves fans questioning her mettle on the biggest stages of the sport.

From GAME POINT by Meg Jones, published by Avon Books. Copyright © 2025 by Meg Jones. Reprinted courtesy of HarperCollins Publishers

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